Fracture Lines (The Glass Complex Book 2) (5 page)

Steg looked up at the orderly’s face, into his eyes. The orderly swallowed, momentarily wondering if releasing the guard had been a good idea.

“Some—some more of my memories are returning.” Steg’s speech was hesitant, as though he was exploring and discovering words. “It’s been a slow process. There are gaps.”

“Very good. Tell me, where are you from?”

“Homeworld, in the Centaur Belt. That’s Rimwards.”

“It’s an independent world?”

“Yes. It’s a free world, a good place to be.”

“Pity.” The man’s empathy was genuine.

“Why?”

“You realize you’ll never see your home again?”

Steg stilled all movement as he intensified his visual contact with the orderly. He reached out and gripped the man’s arm. “Why?”

The orderly frowned. “You don’t know? You’re to be executed. According to your file, an ImpSec tribunal sentenced you to death.”

Steg stayed silent for a moment. He retained his grip, only releasing the pressure when he saw the reflection of pain on the other man’s face. “I collapsed in the courtroom. I was unconscious when the hearing ended. I think they shipped me straight here, afterwards. No one said—I didn’t know—”

The orderly sat Steg down, aware of the consternation his comments had caused.

“ImpSec.” It was a curse. “They make their own rules.”

“When—when will they carry out this—when will they execute me?”

“They don’t publicize their schedule. I checked your records earlier; there’s no date set for your execution, only the sentence.”

“Thank you, Mac, for telling me.”

“I didn’t think—well, I suppose I thought you knew and that’s why you seemed so despondent.”

“Despondent? Oh, I see. No, I’ve been preoccupied, focused on re-building my memories.” He laughed. It was a bitter, humorless sound. “I suppose I’ll complete the task at the same time the authorities carry out ImpSec’s sentence.”

The orderly completed his examination of Steg and decided he did not need to refer him to the doctor. “He’s hopeless, anyway. He’s addicted to one of the more poisonous Joy by-products—his nervous system’s shot. That is why they posted him here, as a prison doctor. He’d never be allowed to practice medicine, outside.”

Steg was deep in thought on the return to his cell. His memories were returning, although his bleak prediction they would be complete at the point the prison carried out his execution seemed more than probable. He had progressed; he was able to recall details of Homeworld from his childhood, teen, and later years. He was beginning to tap into recent memories, although some still eluded his efforts. Even though he realized his efforts might not succeed, he decided he should continue his task of rebuilding his memories.

They came at midnight. He had been in Diyark for almost thirty days, despondent, waiting for news of his scheduled execution. Four guards quietly and quickly entered his cell before he woke. One held a weapon against his head while a second guard placed a loaded dispenser against his neck and triggered an injection. Steg did not have an opportunity to protest and within seconds the dose had taken effect. He sat, wide-eyed, immobile, on the edge of his bed.

“Come along, de Coeur,” said one of the guards, in a low voice. Steg stood and waited for the guard to direct him.

Another guard chuckled. “You see why they call it ‘Come Along’?” he commented. “It amazes me, every time.”

“Cravit, shut up. We need to get him out of here while the video and mikes are off,” the senior guard said. “Come on, let’s go.”

Surrounded and directed by guards, Steg moved out of the small cell and along the walkway. The group passed through checkpoints without challenge as they descended to the ground floor and exited the building. Their destination was the landing pad where a shuttle was waiting for its final passenger before take-off. Lights around the pad illuminated the anonymous space vehicle; it was a mottled green color, without insignia or markings. Steg was urged inside, joining nineteen other prisoners similarly drugged, with their escorts. Some guards already were exiting the shuttle. He sat down as instructed and a guard strapped him in.

“Sixty seconds,” a voice announced over an address system. The remaining guards rushed to the exit, leaving the prisoners unattended in the shuttle cabin.

“Ten seconds,” progressed the voice. “Locks sealed. Take off in …5…4…3…2…1.” The shuttle departed with a tremendous burst of speed, heedless of the comfort of its passengers; fortunately, they all were drugged and unconscious of their adventure. The craft, nose up, lifted at almost full acceleration. The pilot was in a hurry.

A small force of mercenaries, dressed in bland military-style clothing, was waiting for the shuttle when it docked and locked into an access bay on its home starship. They directed a team of laborers, humanoid, to unload the drugged prisoners and clean the shuttle cabin. The bodies were dumped onto a magsled and driven away by one of the laborers under escort of two mercenaries. Another group of workers was waiting at its destination to move the unconscious prisoners to their temporary holding cell. When the shuttle was emptied, it was prepped for its next load.

Steg awoke to the sounds of moans and groans from a number of recovering prisoners. His head spun, his senses reeled. They—about twenty, he estimated—were in a large room, the floor and walls of which appeared to be unpainted fullerene-steel, providing a utilitarian decor. The room was cold, and gravity seemed to be set at two-thirds normal. He felt a mild vibration from where his head rested on the deck. They were on a starship, he realized. He had no idea of how or why; his last conscious memory was of a guard holding a stunner to his head.

He nudged the nearest man. “Do you know what’s happening?”

“Oooh—frek, no. My head feels like someone beat it with a rock.” The speaker tried to sit up; it took him three attempts and almost half a minute to succeed. Others now had recovered and were also trying to assess their circumstances.

Steg at last gained his feet, half-staggering as he did so. He reviewed the room of stirring bodies and spoke up, his voice cutting through the struggles and moans. “I think we’re on a starship. We’re underway. Gravity’s about 70 percent. Anyone know more?”

A ragged chorus of negatives and curses answered his question. Steg looked at the men on the floor; most had recovered consciousness. He was still unsteady and braced himself against a wall.

“Anyone think otherwise?” No one volunteered an alternative. Most now were watching Steg with undisguised interest, some with a possible challenge in mind.

After a subdued conversation between three men, one of them, urged by his immediate companions, staggered to his feet, swayed for a moment, and then stood upright. He was untidy, his uniform torn, and his face revealed scars from prior confrontations.

“Who t’ frek are you?” the man asked as he moved forward, his entire body promising a physical threat.

This, Steg realized, was a challenge that either he accepted and won, or else he backed down now and discarded any future attempt to organize or influence the group. He was not inclined to back down.

“Steg de Coeur. Sentenced to death by ImpSec. And you?” He positioned himself as the man edged closer. Steg was intuitively relying on in-built muscle memories for the pending confrontation.

“Trooper—or should I say, ex-trooper Rippin. Sentenced to three life terms for killing a frekin’ officer an’ his two lady friends.” He spat on the floor. The man stood tall. He was more six feet tall and carried at least twice Steg’s weight.

One of the trooper’s companions interjected, “Rippin was drunk at the time. He can’t remember doing it.”

Steg wondered if the man had been unfairly sentenced. The trooper soon disabused him of his doubt.

“It’s me second frekin’ officer—they didn’t catch me for t’ first one.” He was almost in reach of Steg. Other prisoners had hastily moved away from the threatening storm and as a result, there was a cleared space around the two men.

Steg relaxed, muscle memories rushing to his aid. He felt no fear. His stance failed to impress the trooper and the man continued his approach. Others, however, took note for the future. Steg saw his opponent had somehow gained possession of a knife and was holding it across his body, the promise of a fatal ending contained in its thin sliver of a blade.

“This’s what does ’em in,” Rippin proclaimed. “This little feller.” He waved the knife back and forth.

Steg did not hesitate. He moved forward and snap-kicked Rippin’s knife arm while the man was waving the weapon. The blade spun towards the ceiling, reached its peak, and fell, clattering, to the floor. The trooper staggered backwards, screaming incoherently. His forearm was broken and his arm hung, useless. Steg picked up the weapon and slid it into his belt.

He said, “Anyone else?”

Rippin cursed and rushed forward, attempting to end the fight with a blow from his meaty fist. Moments later he screamed with added pain as Steg broke his other arm. Rippin backed away, pain and bewilderment conflicting on his face.

“Someone? You,” Steg pointed to Rippin’s companion. “You seem to know this man? Look after him; stop him from trying more stupid stunts.”

“Yes, I agree,” said a voice from the door. A man wearing an apparently military uniform stood in the opening. His shoulder badges indicated he held the rank of captain; otherwise his uniform was anonymous. The roomful of prisoners had been intent on the action between Steg and Rippin, and no one had noticed his entry. “You—with the scar—hand me the knife. You won’t need it. The rest of you—Scar’s now your senior officer. Do as he instructs or face consequences; be aware they may be fatal. Scar—what’s your name—de Coeur?” Steg nodded, and the stranger continued. “He will be in command of this group for as long as you’re on board
Wasp.
Do you understand?”

There was a general and subdued murmur of assent. Steg walked to the mercenary captain and handed over the knife.

“You come with me. Rippin, an escort will be here in five. They’ll take you to our medics. I expect you’ll be in plaster for a while. Any more trouble and I’ll find an airlock for you, understand? The rest of you—get some sleep. I know, I know, there are no beds. Sad. Roll up some floor. Tomorrow will be a long day.”

Steg followed the captain out of the room, wondering where he was going, and what he had initiated with his defeat of the other man. The corridor’s dull metallic surface offered no clue as to direction or location. He was somewhere in the middle of a starship, if his assessment was correct. He could guess nothing more.

The captain stopped at a door and entered a key code, hiding the details with his body. The door swung open and the mercenary directed Steg inside. He waited until Steg entered the room, and then closed the door and departed. Two men, uniformed, presumably mercenaries, were each seated at a desk. One, wearing sergeant’s stripes and holding an earpiece to his ear, was watching a video screen. Steg watched for a moment and realized the screen was displaying the room where he had been held. The second man, a colonel, was reading file notes. The officer raised his head for a moment and pointed, directing Steg to a chair beside his desk. He continued to read the file notes. After five minutes had passed, he pushed the files to one side.

“You can handle yourself. You’re intelligent. Why’d you do something dumb like taking on ImpSec?”

“Coincidence and the unknown, I suspect. I still don’t recall how I boarded
xTaur
, and my presence—unexplained and unauthorized— caused major worries on their part.”

“There must have been more to it?” The colonel seemed genuinely curious.

“I suppose.” Steg nodded his head. “A young ImpSec officer and the surgeon responsible for my treatment had a falling out. ImpSec, as a result, were obliged to court-martial their officer. He was dishonorably discharged and received a ten-year sentence. ImpSec used me for revenge.”

“Hmm. We were monitoring the holding room. You’re fast. Efficient. Dangerous. What rank have you held?”

“Captain in the Imperial Intelligence Agency, astronavigator and military shuttle pilot.” Steg was experiencing incremental although measured steps of recall as hidden processes increased the repair of his memory-tattered past.

“Good. We need another captain. You’ll have as many as you select from this and a second load of another twenty when we make our next pickup.”

Steg mentally shook his head, trying to clear his confusion. “What’s this all about? Who are you?”

The colonel replied, “My name’s Ryan Attwood. I command a small battalion of marines. We’re mercenaries, operating under a private flag. We’ve been issued a letter of marque by Sicca—you know, the War Merchants. I’ve two hundred and fifty men, plus about fifty in logistics and support, mainly humanoid. Oh, and there’s the ship’s officers and crew, about a hundred or so with a small force of ship marines; they’re an almost balanced mix of Terran types and aliens. I recruit from wherever I can. Imperial prisons are one of my main recruiting sources. I buy bodies, those sentenced to death or never to be released. We get some good, some bad.” He shrugged. “We return the bad. If we can.”

Steg’s immediate reaction was to class the mercenaries as pirates, even if they did possess a letter of marque. Such a letter allowed them legally to go into battle against other starships, as long as they were authorized under a properly contracted arrangement with a planetary government. Without that letter and contract, they’d be classed as pirates if they attacked another starship or engaged in planetary-based warfare. He needed time: to understand, to consider what his strategy should be, to benefit from this unexpected opportunity to gain his freedom.

“Colonel, I’m exhausted. I think the drug’s still affecting me.” He rubbed his forehead. “Can we discuss this tomorrow?”

“Certainly. I’ll get a corporal to show you to your new quarters. A captain doesn’t sleep on the floor.”

Steg gave his cabin a cursory examination when he entered; there was a bed, two steel storage cabinets, a desk and chair, an entertainment block, and two casual chairs. Comfortable and space enough although he had no possessions to store. It was a marked improvement on his cell. His mind was buzzing with a mix of stress and tiredness, and after a quick shower in the fresher, Steg collapsed onto his bed. He slept soundly for eight hours, waking only when someone knocked on the cabin door.